Folding Laundry
by tashasfic
Summary: It's amazing how much you can glean about a person from the way he does his everyday household chores


Folding Laundry  
  
by  
Tasha  
  
Disclaimer: The X-Men aren't mine. Note: Some of the words may be in British English, while others are in American English. I'm sorry if this causes any confusion.  
  
Every evening after dinner they proceed to fold the laundry. No one knows how this specific chore fell into their lot, but it's one of the things that they've always done, from the time they were the only two teenagers at the institute, to this very day, and in all probability would continue to do so until the day they moved out.  
  
Others rotated their household duties of clearing the table, washing the dishes and loading the washing machine, but the task of folding the freshly laundered clothes has always been theirs' and theirs' alone.  
  
They each take a pile, reading the sewn-on name tags on each item of clothing so as not to return the wrong item to the wrong X-Man. It's a routine they follow almost every day, which, though is not as enjoyable to them as the routine they follow later in the privacy of their bedroom, is one they follow without complaint. Others may say that they have better ways to spend their time, but neither of them utter a single murmur of protest as they continuously fold the laundry. Slowly. Methodically. Making perfect creases in the various shirts, jeans, dresses, skirts, and large variety of underware which ranges from boxers to briefs to bikinis.  
  
He folds with precision, making sure that each fold falls with exactitude, that each sleeve folded is an exact replica of the one folded previously. His folding is organized and correct in every manner. He carries out his task in a certain logical pattern, as if to fold each piece of clothing so that each side is perfectly symmetrical to the other, all the while with a determined look on his face, as if to imply that there was not a known force that could deter him from completing the task at hand though more than once he had been known to have to abandon his occupation to go and stop an anti-mutant organization from doing all but killing an innocent mutant or having to rush off to help one of the school's many 'gifted' children with having to control their powers due to an unexpected power- surge.  
  
He sets the pace for the folding. He decides how everything goes. Like a leader. No one watching him could doubt that he's familiarized with his work, and this combined with his tall, slim stature is what won him the nickname of being a "lean mean folding machine" from the school's talkative student, Jubilation Lee. He stops only once in a way to shake his head over in confusion over what he considers to be a confounded piece of clothing, at which his partner laughs in amusement at his bewildered expression and takes the article, describing it to be the 'haute couture' of the season.  
  
She sits beside him her shoulder length hair pulled back in a high ponytail as she accompanies him in their ritualistic task. She folds with less concentration than her partner, but the steady stream of chatter about the days events which continues as she rapidly folds the clean, faintly detergent smelling clothes, and systematically arranges them into neat piles according to their ownership.  
  
She works as if she is his helper, her smaller clothes piles supporting and forming the basis for his larger ones. Her's are simple in comparison to his towering clothe stacks which more often than not would be falling over onto the floor if she hadn't been extending psychokinetic supporters all around them. She's his support. He leads; but she's what keeps him at the front.  
  
This is one of the few times in the day when they're alone with each other, and here in the laundry room is where they talk, where as children they spoke of their ambitions and built invisible castles in the air, where as teenager they good-naturedly squabbled over who was right on irrelevant matters which made no difference to anyone, where they told each other their problems, where she cried over her break-ups and he comforted her, where he sulked over a failed mission and she in turn made him feel better; and now that they were adults, it was no different. This was their 'alone time', when no one would interrupt them, more in order to evade being asked to help with the folding, than out of consideration for their feelings, but it suited them just the same.  
  
Within an hour, they've finished folding. Leaving the stacks of clothing to be picked up by their respective wearers, they depart from the laundry room to their own room where they carry out their last and final routine of the day.  
  
Some people's routines are followed out of habit, and some out of obligation. Their routine is followed out of love. So long as they can unfold their feelings and themselves, the laundry will always be folded.  
  
Feedback is, as always, greatly appreciated. 


End file.
